Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

First off, he’s small and doesn’t have a beard. In fact, he doesn’t have hair at all. I heard he was born with zero hair, like not even eye lashes. Nothing.” June was staring at me, and I knew that I was now swimming in the muddy waters of a small town rumor mill. She said, “And no pubes either, according to Randy Pearson.”

“How would Randy know?”

“He married a hooker. She heard it from another hooker. Mister Lawrence goes for hookers.”

I said, “Past the old fire tower huh?”

June nodded. “Yup.” She sipped at her drink. “But you won’t even get close. He’s got dogs and fences and all kinds of security stuff like that. Mister Lawrence is a very private individual. He moves by helicopter, hummer, and yacht.”

“You ever actually see him?”

“You mean in person?”

I nodded.

She said, “Saw him once at bingo. He wasn’t playing, but his wife was doing a charity draw.”

“He’s got a wife.”

“That was a while ago. Maybe he’s still got a wife. Maybe it wasn’t a wife. Maybe a girlfriend. Put it this way, it was a female woman type of person with tits and long hair and earrings and a necklace in a dress. She was picking out the ping-pong balls from the hopper for about ten minutes. Then he picked her up and put her in the hummer.”

“He’s got a hummer.”

June nodded. “Yup. Drives a big gold hummer.”

I said, “You saw him in the hummer, not necessarily up close and personal.”

“You want to get picky about it, I saw him through the window of the bingo hall, which is actually the high school gym, and then through the window of his vehicle. That’s as close as I ever got to Mister Lawrence. Me. Air. Window. Air. More window. Mister Lawrence.”

“Okay.”

“Steve says his boat is filling up.”

I said, “Who’s Steve?”

“Guy who was just here talking to me. Manages the booking office next door.”

“His boat is filling up. What does that mean?”

June said, “Filling up with passengers I guess, which is a good thing for Mister Lawrence, since he owns it, in case you think that’s relevant. That’s all I meant.”

That was interesting. I said, “So, all those tourists walking around. They’re coming off a boat owned by Mister Lawrence?”

“Boat hasn’t left yet. Those tourists are getting a load of Port Morris while the boat gets ready and fills up. I guess they’ll be leaving in a day or two. Not much more than that.” June thought of something else. “You can see the place from the top of the fire tower. Save you getting bit by the dogs or electrocuted by the fence.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Can you now?”

Eight

The old fire tower was a five-mile bike ride through the woods, the last two of them uphill. Good exercise. By the time I got up there it was as late in the afternoon as you can get without being technically evening.

The tower had nine flights of stairs, framed in a rudimentary steel cage. The bottom started off wide and thick, and by the time I made it to the top, the cage was tight enough to touch on all sides. Up top was a cabin built from split spruce. The stairs came out the floor facing north and west. The sides were open to the air. If you wanted, you could jump out. Nothing to stop a person from falling all nine flights to smash themselves on the bald hilltop below.

The setting sun was bathing the treetops in gold. It was a great view. About a half mile away I could see some kind of a structure poking up out of the woods. A large modern house, with wood and glass glinting in the light. A couple of hundred yards west of that I could glimpse a piece of a lower structure, like an industrial building.

Then the wind died down, and everything got still and quiet, which is how I heard the breathing.

It was coming from the other side of the cabin, the side facing south. I stepped around the stair cage. The cabin was built square, around five paces across any way you chose. Stepping around the stair cage ate up two of those paces. Then I stopped. I was facing out the south side.

If the view north had been interesting with the sunset and architecture, the view to the south was stunning. The edge of the South East Alaskan archipelago faded off into the Pacific Ocean, hit by the late sun. But that was outside. Inside the cabin was a woman. She was cross-legged on the floor, facing me, with her eyes closed. She looked harmonious.

The woman was in her forties with long gray-streaked hair roped in a braid down her back, dressed pragmatically in a wool shirt, jeans, and hiking boots. I figured she was doing something spiritual, like deep meditation, or a special form of yoga. She opened her eyes and looked at me, but said nothing.

I said nothing in return.

Then she spoke. “Nice view, huh?”

I said, “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am, I’m leaving.”

She said, “You just got here.”

Which was the truth. I said nothing again. Walked back around to the other side and looked out at the other view. The house wasn’t far from the water, maybe another quarter mile to the west. Because the fire tower was so high, a rocky cove was exposed to view.

The woman stepped next to me. She said, “So you’ve come to look at that?”

We were side by side looking out over the trees, arms rested on the thick spruce railing.

I said, “House looks new.”

“Maybe seven years. Brought in their own people. Outside labor, outside architects, rammed it through the planning commission.”

I said, “Sounds like you’re an expert?”

She shook her head. “An interested neighbor.”

I said, “What else about it is interesting?”

“Well now.” She turned to face me. “Built on disputed land, which is always interesting.”

“Disputed how?”

The woman pointed. “You see the cove?”

“Yes.”

“Just to the south of the cove is a small island that